The Last Magic Chapter 16

16. Rin

My seemingly endless university life finally came to an end, and I officially became a working adult.

In the end, I never found anything I truly wanted to do while in school, so on a whim, I applied for a job that vaguely interested me. Somehow, I ended up in the marketing department of an IT company.

Technically, I had majored in economics, so it wasn’t completely unrelated. I patched together what little I’d learned in my marketing classes, scoured the internet, and even asked a few friends who seemed knowledgeable—somehow, I managed to scrape through the interviews.

Marketing sounded intimidating, and I was a little worried whether I could actually do it. But once I started, I realized the job wasn’t an extension of university studies—it was more like an extension of the social skills I’d picked up in college.

The key was getting along with people and being able to pitch ideas to unfamiliar companies and clients. Of course, the actual marketing strategies mattered too, but those were learned more through interactions than textbooks.

Work didn’t go as smoothly as university life had. There were times I cried (never in front of others—always in private), but after a clumsy start, I gradually found my footing. Now, in my third year, I’ve settled in decently.

Meanwhile, magic had become a massive entertainment trend. Sakurako’s success played a part, but Rei’s manga about sorcerers, serialized in a major magazine, became a huge hit and helped shape the public image of magic users. Rei had gone to grad school but dropped out and was now a full-fledged mangaka. She even appeared on TV as a University of Tokyo graduate-turned-manga artist—so her education hadn’t gone to waste. Life really was unpredictable.

When it came out that Rei’s manga was based on Sakurako, her popularity skyrocketed even further. Now, she was traveling the world performing magic shows, completely out of reach.

Still, we exchanged LINE messages on birthdays, and whenever one of us moved, we made sure to update the other.

That thin thread was all that connected us now.

But I never told anyone at work about my connection to Sakurako.

If they knew, they’d say, "Why not use that connection?"—and I didn’t want to exploit her like that.

I was still dating Kazuma. He worked at a major corporation. We messaged every night before bed and met up once a week on weekends.

The best part? Even when we sat in silence, it never felt awkward. Being together without the pressure to talk was comfortable, natural.

Then, on our fifth anniversary, he took me to a fancy restaurant and proposed.

"I want you to marry me."

His serious tone made me suspect it was coming, but unlike in movies or dramas, there was no ring.

"Where’s the ring?"

"We’ll pick one out together later. I don’t know your size, and you should choose what you like. Budget-wise, I’ll follow tradition—three months’ salary."

"You don’t need to spend that much."

I laughed and said yes.

Three months of Kazuma’s salary was no small sum, and it felt wasteful to spend so much before marriage. In the end, I stepped into a jewelry store for the first time in my life and picked out a simple ring just over ¥100,000.

But marriage wasn’t the end of it. There was so much to do. Just as I was agonizing over wedding plans, the COVID-19 pandemic swept the globe, derailing everything.

Honestly, neither Kazuma nor I were the type to fuss over ceremonies, so we took the opportunity to keep it small—just family. Sakurako called to congratulate me, the first time we’d spoken in ages.

We rented a 2LDK apartment along the Keiō Line, convenient for both our commutes. Neither of us had ever lived alone, so our married life began like playing house.

Neither of us had ever done much cleaning, laundry, or cooking, so we fumbled through chores—sometimes awkwardly, sometimes smoothly—but we made it work.

We’d figured we’d wait until our thirties for kids, but it happened within a year. Suddenly, we were scrambling with childbirth and work handovers.

Luckily—or maybe just modern—my company had proper maternity leave, allowing me two years off. Still, I worried about what would happen to my job after such a long break.

Kazuma even took paternity leave and 

"It’s okay if you quit. I can support us. But if you want to keep working, I’ll back you all the way."

he said reassuringly.

I was so glad he wasn’t like those useless husbands you read about online.

Still, now that I’d finally gotten the hang of work, I wanted to return as soon as possible. Thankfully, both my mom and Kazuma’s were supportive. Childbirth wasn’t as hard as I’d feared—but it was still hard.

We had a girl. We named her Rio.

Partly because she was born in April, but also because the name combined mine and Sakurako’s.

We weren’t even that close anymore, but I felt like I had to. Maybe it was the maternity high.

Of course, I discussed it with Kazuma first.

"I was thinking of naming her Rio. Is that okay? If you have another name in mind, we can go with that..."

It felt unfair to decide alone for our child, so I was ready to back down if he objected.

"Sounds good. It’s a beautiful name. Sakurako was your best friend, after all."

"That was a long time ago. I don’t know if I’d call her that now..."

"No, I think she is. Hearing you talk about her, it’s obvious. I bet Sakurako feels the same."

He smiled gently. Oh, right—this was why I’d chosen him. He always wrapped me in warmth.

After Rio was born, I sent Sakurako a photo with the message:

[We named her Rio—after you and me.]

Then,

[Congratulations. And thank you.]

Her reply came with a cheerful bear sticker

She was overseas then, so she couldn’t visit—not that I expected her to. If she had come, I’d have been overwhelmed.

After that, every day was a battle.

Kazuma and I took turns soothing Rio when she cried at night, painstakingly feeding her mashed baby food, and chasing her around the park as she ran wild. Post-birth life was way harder than childbirth itself.

My mom sighed, 

"You were far worse, you know, kindergarten you were already the neighborhood ringleader, and I was constantly worrying you'd hurt some other child. Oh, and remember when we got called into your elementary school? Because you drop-kicked a boy? I nearly lost my mind over that one."

Hearing this, I found myself apologizing to my mother all these years later.

Meanwhile, Kazuma-kun had apparently been just as quiet as he was now. His parents reminisced with a sigh, 

"My, what an energetic child! Kazuma was so calm and easy, but that just made us worry when we saw other lively kids—'Is our boy developing properly?' Grass is always greener, I suppose." 

They doted on their granddaughter, who was nothing like their son had been.

During my maternity leave, Kazuma-kun bought a used condo in Urayasu.

It was a relatively new building near his parents' home—a bit far from the station, but in familiar area.

"It's a good environment for raising children. Proven track record," 

he said, looking at me with a smile. What an incredible man. I could never say something like that with such confidence.

And so, my tenure as a Tokyo resident lasted only about two years before I returned to being a Chiba prefectural citizen. Well, now that we'd bought a home, I suppose I'd be a Chiba resident for life.

Not that I minded. This town had its charms. When I was little, everything had been new development with wilderness all around, but now the area felt fully settled and mature.

Being close to my parents meant I could easily leave Rio with my mother, and we found a daycare without trouble. So after about a year, I decided to return to work.

The Keiyō Line was frustrating—delayed if so much as a strong wind blew—but access to Tokyo wasn't bad, so commuting wasn't too inconvenient.

My company had a reasonable return-to-work program, starting with reduced hours. To my surprise, my transition back went smoothly.

A child, a home, parents nearby, a good job, an understanding husband—it was a happy life.

If I complained about this, I'd deserve divine punishment. That's what I believed.